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Tag: parenting

An image of the sun over the ocean to remind me the sun and the ocean are always there, even when I can’t see, feel, or smell them. They’re a little like hope in that regard.

It’s February. Again.

This winter has been a particularly brutal one. With the frigid temperatures, the cloudy days, and the threat of illness almost daily (Hello, flu epidemic!), my body and mind are physically and mentally exhausted. I’ve been trying to combat the creeping depression with mall walking and walking the dog. Both get me out of the house, and in the case of the dog, I actually get outside. Yay for a little Vitamin D! But now that we’re in the throes of house building (as of this writing, we have basement walls and some plumbing installed), the stress of all the daily little decisions is creeping in along with the winter blahs.

I’m bringing this up, because I’ve decided to be more forthcoming about my mental illness. I’ve written in past posts about having a therapist and feeling less than myself in the wintertime. I’ve never been officially diagnosed with SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), but many of the symptoms seem to crop up during the winter months. Or maybe it’s just that I’m cold all the time and want to hunker down under a blanket fort and never want to leave. Same difference?

There have been years, however, when the “winter blues” bled into spring and summer, when life was more chaotic or drama-filled than usual. It was a year like that when I sought out the guidance of a therapist. I love her, although I haven’t seen her in a long time. Sometimes, I think I should get back in the routine of going to therapy, especially now that we’re building a house, one of those huge, life-changing events. Everyone keeps saying, “It’ll test your marriage” and “You have to make all these decisions really quick.” In our case, I may be making most of those decisions myself. Our builder has been patient with us so far, but we’ve only just begun. Weather has been a big factor. He couldn’t dig a hole when the ground was frozen. Now that walls are starting to form, the process is building steam. He’s asked us to look at a window company to get ideas, and my head is already spinning with the choices.

Which brings me to why I may be the one making most of the decisions. No, I won’t be making them without my husband’s input, but when it comes down to last minute choices and Hubby’s in the middle of a surgery or delivery, it will be me our builder turns to about paint colors and light fixtures and counter tops. (I’m sure I’ll always have final say on paint colors, because my husband’s slightly color blind, but that’s beside the point.) Our builder is really laid back and we have a good rapport with him, so I’m hoping the build continues to be as smooth as it has been from the day he dug out the driveway. (There have been obstacles, mainly dealing with the future neighbors. That’s a post on kindness for another day.)

I think what’s really causing my anxiety to kick in isn’t the build itself. It’s been exciting watching the basement take shape and thinking of all the possibilities that could go into a house. What’s really stressing me out is the amount of work it’s going to take to get our current house in shape to sell. We’ve been here for almost a decade, which means a decade’s worth of stuff in every closet and cabinet and shelf. I’ve got de-cluttering and cleaning and garage sale-ing looming over my head. I should start now to get ahead of it all and I. Just. Can’t.

My motivation’s kaput. My sleep has been awful, which means I’m exhausted when I wake up. Little things easily irritate me. I’ve been forgetful more than usual (which is hardly ever for me). Even my writing feels off. I’ve been working on a historical fiction novella since NaNoWriMo, and although I love the idea of the story, I can’t tell if it’s “reading” well, if that makes sense. It’s really frustrating and just adds to the general sense of anxious foreboding. I’ve been turning to sewing for a creative outlet and finding that, although sewing for myself has been like pulling teeth, sewing for others – and teaching others to sew – is helping my mood.

Because of family history, I sometimes think I should try anti-depressants or anti-anxiety meds. The reason I haven’t already is because I’m highly sensitive to drugs, even caffeine. I’ve been prescribed anti-depressants at various times in my life, and they made me feel worse rather than better. One left me immobilized on my couch only an hour or two after taking a single pill. I know that it can take a couple of weeks or more before anti-depressants start working, but I don’t have the luxury of that time. I can’t say, “Oh, I’ll just spend the next two weeks in bed waiting for the meds to kick in.” Who would get my kids back and forth to school? Who would get them up in the morning, make their breakfasts, make their dinner, give them baths, help them with homework, get them to bed on time, do their laundry? They’re both getting older and can help around the house more, but they’re still very reliant on me. Also, who would take care of them when they’re sick? Who would remember to pay the bills on time, to schedule all the appointments that need to be scheduled, to take the van to get it serviced, to buy groceries and new clothes when they’re needed? My husband helps when he can, but his schedule is erratic and his hours are long and tiring. Babies come when they come. They don’t care that I might be a little depressed in the wintertime. They don’t care that my family has a life outside the hospital.

Before this sounds too much like I’m whining, I have to say that it’s not lost on me how much single parents have to do and deal with on a daily basis. And they usually have a job on top of everything else. Kudos to them for making it work. Also, I’m very grateful my husband has a job that will never not be needed, that we have a great life because of his job, that we can make daily choices that many people today cannot make themselves and their families.

But, truthfully, I’m also a bit burnt out. It’s the curse of being the spouse of a doctor/nurse/lawyer/police officer/fire fighter/military personnel/any number of jobs with odd shifts and long hours, I suppose.

So, why this long, rambling post about my current mental state? Because of podcasts and websites like “The Hilarious World of Depression” (THWoD, for short) and “Sickboy Podcast”. John Moe of THWoD and the three young Canadians of Sickboy are trying to change the world by making it okay to talk about – and laugh about – mental and physical illness. I’ve been listening to Sickboy since it began a year or two ago and I’ve learned so much about other people’s experiences with illness as well as my own. I’ve only just started listening to THWoD, but already, I’m hearing people put into words how I sometimes feel myself. Jenny Lawson, AKA The Bloggess, in particular spoke to me. Our childhoods were very different, yet, in many ways, very similar. I can relate to what she goes through on daily basis to a lesser degree. I highly recommend listening to her on the podcast (and reading her blog), because she’s funny and poignant and, like many other people, making it easier for all of us to talk about mental illness.

I’m doing okay, by the way. Just tired and stressed and ready for a vacation from daily life. We’re planning a family trip over Spring Break in March, so maybe that will help lift the old mood a bit. And maybe I’ll start feeling better about that novella I’m working on. Only time – or the seasons – will tell.

If you relate to anything I’ve written here, please know that you’re not alone and there are resources and people who can help. MakeItOkay.org is one place to start. If your feeling hopeless and don’t know where to turn, The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is there for you with free confidential support. Remember: Depression lies. Take care of you.

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Wow. It’s June. We’re halfway through 2017 already, and I haven’t been on the old blog in almost six months. So, what’s been happening in my little corner of the world?

The biggest news I can share is my science fiction novel – the one I’ve been working on for the past three years and counting – will not be traditionally published. On May 30, I received a rejection letter from the publisher I submitted my manuscript to way back in January. They said my novel is not right for them at this time. I’m both disappointed and relieved. This means I can self-publish as I had originally planned, and I won’t have to change a thing (except grammar mistakes) because the subject matter might not “be right” for the publisher’s audience. I’m currently waiting to hear back from a copy editor. Once the manuscript is polished and to my liking, the final book will be released into the wild. Hopefully, it’ll be done by the end of the summer, but that will depend on copy editing, formatting, and uploading everything to CreateSpace/Amazon.

Another big thing: my husband and I bought ten acres of land at the end of March. It’s a beautiful lot that backs up to a development, and it’s all forested, which means, once our new house is built, we’ll feel like we’re living in the middle of nowhere while still being a few minutes from our closest neighbors and the rest of civilization. We’ve already chosen the building site – in front of a lovely limestone ravine – and yesterday, we met with our builder and a draftsman to start working on house plans. This is a huge adventure for us, one I wasn’t sure we’d ever experience. It’s been fun, so far, with only a few minor hurdles to jump. We’ll see if it’s just as fun a year or so from now when we’re waist deep in construction. In the meantime, this is what we get to look at when we visit:

Besides not being traditionally published, my only other disappointment for the year is we’re not going to Great Britain for my birthday. The new property took a large chunk of our savings, and although we could still make the trip, I’d rather save the money and use it toward the new house. Plus, there’s a lot of uncertainty around relations between the United States and Europe. I’m not sure it’s the right time to be crossing the big pond. One day, we will cross it, and it will be glorious.

We may not be going to England, but 2017 will still be the Year of Travel. My family and I already spent Spring Break in Washington, DC, as these photos will attest:

And in a couple of weekends, we’ll be back in DC to celebrate a cousin’s high school graduation. Next weekend is Creation Entertainment’s Once Upon A Time Convention in Chicago. Two of my best girlfriends and I will be attending the con together for a moms’ weekend away, cosplaying as Snow White, Regina, and Belle from the show. There will be panels and photo ops with the show’s cast. It’s going to be epic. And, of course, we have our annual family trip to Charleston, South Carolina in July.

Oh, I almost forgot. We got a new dog.

Our poor little hamster, Skye, passed away the day we closed on the new land. The boys were devastated and immediately wanted a new pet. Since we’d been talking about getting them a dog for a long time, we decided to take a look at our local animal shelter. There’d been no plans to bring home a puppy right away, but it just so happened little Chewie was at the shelter waiting to be loved. He’s a Chihuahua/miniature pinscher mix, eight months old, and feisty. I’ll be enrolling him in puppy school soon.

I think that catches you all up to what’s been happening at Chez Cook since January. Despite looking forward to some relaxation, it’s still going to be a very busy summer for me. I recently joined a local chapter of NOW (National Organization for Women) and hope to steer some of my frustrated-with-world-events energy into supporting causes dear to me, like reproductive justice. I’ll also be more involved in my sons’ school starting in the fall as I step into the role of vice president of the board of directors. And there will be Gen Con in August, and more sewing and writing throughout the rest of the year. Lots and lots of both, I hope. Perhaps more of the Golden Orb prequels will make their way onto the blog soon. I’ve been shopping them with my new writing group, and they’ve been well received.

But for now, I must go, because there’s a child’s birthday party and a high school graduation party to attend simultaneously. Fun times, ahead!

You look great.I don’t always feel great. You look like half of you has disappeared. Not half, but enough. Too much. As Austen might say, it was unconsciously done. You look so pretty when you wear makeup. My makeup is the disguise I wear when I want to feel pretty. When I don’t feel like being my everyday self. My unpretty self. When I want to butterfly myself. For me. Perhaps for you too.

Did someone break your nose? Your eyes are too small to wear eye liner. It’s funny because when I started wearing glasses, I discovered they weren’t only for my eyesight. They hide my beak. They anime my eyes. They softened the smokey shadow I tried for fun, but was too much for a night out.

No one sees the double hills, the deep valley, the tiny volcano of my navel when I suck in my stomach. No one sees my deflated balloons, the healed scars from four months of bad latching and toothless gums. No one sees the rivulets in my epidermis or the vanished scars under the forest. No one sees them, but me.

What is it we say to our toddlers in packed malls or busy playgrounds? If you can’t see me, I can’t see you. You don’t see me. I don’t see you.

The beautiful flower on my very pregnant belly above was painted in 2010 by my friend Norita.

Like this:

That’s not to say I haven’t been writing. I’m further in my revisions of When We Were Forgotten than I thought possible a couple of months ago. I’m not finished yet, but still. That’s a huge accomplishment, considering I revised nothing during June, July, and even part of August. I hope to be done by the end of November, but it is November, and that’s why I’m struggling. (And I’m not even doing NaNoWriMo this year.)

I’m struggling because I am exhausted. It’s nothing new, really. Being the wife of a very busy physician (he’s an OB/Gyn, so Busy), I’ve always taken on most of the parenting duties. I’m the stay-at-home-parent. It’s my job. I do try to make certain things like conferences are scheduled during times when he’s available, because I want him to be as involved in his kids’ lives as I am. I also know that it’s not always possible for him to be physically present. That’s why I stay at home. We are privileged in so many ways, like me being able to stay home, living in a large, sound house, driving functional vehicles, buying enough food that our pantry and fridge overflow, sending our kids to a great school, etc., etc., etc.

Knowing we are privileged, I feel guilty saying aloud, “I’m struggling. I’m exhausted.” But as someone reminded me once, we all have our different struggles in life, so here I am, telling the world, “I’m struggling.”

My husband knows, by the way, and he always helps when and where he can, but he’s exhausted too. His exhaustion comes from a physically, mentally, and emotionally demanding job for which lack of sleep is the norm and emotions run high. Babies come when they want to come, folks, and not always how we want them to come. I know that. I accepted it a long time ago and have always supported him. I may have to deal with sick kids on my own sometimes or spend an occasional holiday or weekend without him, but he will never have to worry about unemployment. Well, unless something unforeseen or tragic happens … like the Zombie Apocalypse, and even then, there’ll be babies born among the survivors for sure.

Anyway…

While he’s exhausted being a physician on top of everything else, I’m exhausted because … why?

Because the days are shorter, and there’s not enough daylight to soak in? Most likely.

Because I’m trying to keep up with housework and meals and getting kids to and from school and homework and bath times and bedtimes and play times and sick times, sometimes all by myself? Definitely.

Because I’m trying to finish a novel that, for a while, I didn’t believe in (I do now)? Most definitely. (For anyone wondering why I’m writing when I don’t seem to have the time: I have to. I just have to.)

Because I lost some weight earlier in the year and still don’t know why? I don’t know. (That’s a new one. I was supposed to have some tests back in September, but one of my sons got sick the day before I was supposed to prep. I’m thinking about rescheduling the tests at some point, though.)

On top of all that, I added some extra duties at my boys’ school, which I’m loving by the way. And I try to play with our weekly board game group once or twice a month to get some adult time in. And my husband and I try to get out together occasionally. And at some point, I need to start working on costumes for a couple of conventions next year. And the holidays are almost upon us, which means trying to live up to everyone’s expectations of being available and sociable when we both probably just want to go back to bed. And …

My eyelid started twitching. I’m not making that up.

Yep, it’s November, and realizing I’m feeling this way means it’s time to make an appointment to see my therapist again. It’s been awhile since we last spoke. I was doing okay in June, July, August, September, and October for the most part, but it’s November now. Winter is coming. It’s time to focus on my well-being, so I can be well for everyone else. (An upcoming conference trip with my husband sans kids will help. So much hotel and beach time means so much sleeping and writing and reading will be getting done.)

I’ll let you all know how everything’s going after New Year’s, although there may be a celebratory post in the between time when I’ve finally finished my revisions.

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Now I concede that, even at almost 38 years old, I’m still slightly ignorant of certain functions of social media. I can’t remember when or why I decided to make my posts on Google+ public, but I did. Normally, if anyone comments on those posts, they’re friends or acquaintances, and I’ve never had more than one or two people “+1” my pics, the Google+ equivalent of “liking” something.

But a few days ago, I posted this:

along with the caption: “Welcome to the newest member of our household: Skye, the Hamster.”

At the time of this writing, the number of +1s on my innocuous photo of our new little bundle of joy was 133, and I have no idea who almost all of these people are. Apparently, members of the Google+ community like them some cute pics of furry animals.

Along with the +1s came the comments, because of course people wanted to comment on the adorableness of our new pet. Some even gave a bit of advice, which was helpful. We’ve never owned a hamster, and caring for a hamster is not the same as caring for a cat or a dog.

Then yesterday, out of the clear blue, for no other reason than to be an utter … I don’t know, I can’t come up with a good enough description … a random troll wrote this comment: (Warning: Bigoted Language After The Jump)

WHAT A FAGGOT

At first, I just stared at the words, wondering if (and then, realizing) it was some kind of sick joke. A couple of well meaning young ladies further down the thread commented about the fact that whoever this person was who decided to be a troll was doing it wrong. I had to agree with them. Sure, I would have expected such a comment if I had posted something about GamerGate or MRAs or White Supremacists or any other groups who have organized themselves with the purpose of attacking and/or marginalizing others. But this wasn’t the case. It was just a picture of a hamster.

I also know from others’ experiences online that YOU DO NOT FEED THE TROLLS. Instead, I reported his/her ass using Google+’s handy “Report This Comment” function. (I will make no assumptions that this person is a male, even though s/he used a male-sounding name in his/her fake account name. It very much could be a male, given that it seems most trolls are from the male persuasion, but it could also be a female. You never know. I don’t.)

The comment has since been deleted — by Google+ or by the original poster, I do not know. However, being the curious person I am, I decided to click on his/her username, which was mentioned in one of the replies of another poster, one of the well-meaning young ladies. (I know. I shouldn’t have clicked on it. I’m the same kind of person who knows not to read the comments under certain anger-filled, finger-pointing articles, and yet I do. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just to observe the train wreck from afar.)

I’m not going to descibe what I found on this person’s account, but … wow. Just. Wow.

Later, I told my husband, and he had the same reaction as I did after I reported the comment: if only we could have told that troll’s mom on him/her.

I’m a mom. I have two young sons. They’re not old enough to have social media accounts. I monitor their YouTube and Netflix-watching habits as much as I can. (Thank God for YouTube Kids.) When my oldest son plays Minecraft, he plays offline. Any other online games, especially those on our tablet, are played against the computer or have no chat function available when playing with other people. Anonymity, at least on our end of the Tubes, is the order of the day. I do all of this for many reasons. Mostly because I want to keep my kids safe as much as I can, but also because I know they are not mature enough to deal with the shadier, more malicious side of the Internet.

The troll who decided to attack the photo of my hamster yesterday — s/he did not attack me; I will not give him/her the honor of that privilege — attacked it anonymously. I have no clue how old s/he is. Judging by the comment, I would have said a tween or teenager. His/her words (and lack of punctuation) had that same ring of maturity level behind them. But when I went to the poster’s account, all notions of age and maturity flew out the window. I had no clue. The posts on his/her account were angry, vicious, racist. I didn’t scroll down very far before I had to close the tab. I kept wondering, Who is this person? Why is s/he so angry at the world?

And where is his/her mother?

Everyone has a mother, whether biological or adopted or foster. I know many children never get adopted and many live on the streets without parents, but everyone came from someone. Everyone has someone in their life who is/was responsible for their care, responsible for teaching them how to treat other people. Where are the parental figures in these trolls’ lives? Where are the women (or men) who had the responsibility of teaching these misguided souls manners and decency? Where are the people who should be stepping up and saying, “Look. I know you’re angry. I know you want attention, but this is the wrong way to go about it. Just because you’re miserable, doesn’t give you the right to make others miserable, too. You have a choice of how you make people see you, you know”?

Because the truth is for the troll, it’s all about getting attention. It’s all about making others see him/her. Yes, I’m well aware that I’m calling out my singular troll just by writing about him/her, which is probably what s/he wants. And maybe I should be giving him/her attention. Maybe that’s what s/he craves. Maybe that’s what s/he needs.

I just finished John Green’s achingly beautiful novel, The Fault in Our Stars, and one of the main characters’ biggest fears is of oblivion. He wants to be remembered for doing some grand, heroic gesture and never quite gets around to it. I think that maybe this is what all the trolls’ hate-filled, bigoted, sexist, whatever-ist language is all about. They fear oblivion. They fear they’ll be forgotten. They fear losing the attention they so desperately crave, because maybe they’re not getting that attention from their mothers or fathers or siblings or spouses or from anyone. But on the Internet, they can rail and whine and scream and get attention, and their words last forever. Oh, comments may get reported and deleted, but somewhere, hidden among all the 1s and 0s, the words live on.

Words hold power. Read any fantasy book and you’ll see what I’m talking about, especially when spells are involved. Words have the power to build up or tear down. They can make us laugh or cry or scream or think. They pull us in or push us away. Written or spoken, they hold power. (Funny that when my kids are angry or scared about something, I tell them to use their words.)

And that’s what the trolls want. That’s what the GamerGaters want. That’s what the MRAs want. That’s what the White Supremacists and all their ilk want. That’s what any group of people with the same mindset and agenda wants over the groups who don’t share their mindset and agenda. They want power. And even though many of them already have a modicum of power and privilege, they don’t want to share it. They want to keep it for themselves. They observe the world changing all around them, and they’re not ready to change with it. They’re afraid.

They’re afraid of oblivion.

A few hours after reporting my troll’s comment, I watched a video of a mother in Baltimore pulling her son away from a riot. She had discovered him throwing rocks at police along with a group of other rioters, and she pulled him out, slapping him and yelling at him, telling him to get back home where he belonged. I don’t condone beating children for any reason, but then again, I don’t know that I wouldn’t have reacted as Toya did if I caught my sons doing the same thing. There is a time to be mad and frustrated with the world, and I understand the frustration that young man had, but violence — whether physical or verbal or written — is never the answer. Toya was scared for her son, and I don’t blame her. I would be scared for mine too.

I would also be angry as hell with them, because I’ve been trying to teach them to choose words — respectful words — over violence. I want them to grow up to be compassionate, respectful young men who understand that other people, regardless of their race, gender, ability, whatever, have a right to live their lives without fear of violence or the repercussions of hate and ignorance. I want my sons to understand that humans make mistakes, but that violence in any form is not the answer. Violence only begets violence. Hate only begets hate. And until we realize that the only way to solve our problems with each other is to sit down and have a civil discourse about them — no name-calling; no talking over others; just listening and hearing what the other side has to say and compromising when necessary, then, moving on with life — the violence will continue. The violence of words will continue, until we’re all left wondering how we got to where we are, going nowhere but in a circle of words.

So, my dear troll, I want to ask you: Where is your mother? Where is that figure in your life with the responsibility of caring for and raising you? Where is that person who reminded you of the Golden Rule? I know s/he is out there. Maybe you’re old enough to be on your own. Maybe your mother figure has long since passed. Still, there has to have been someone in your life who once looked over your shoulder and said, “Um, yeah. That’s not how we treat other people. Try again.” Because I want to believe that somewhere deep down you know what you’re saying and doing is hurtful and hateful. I want to believe that one day you’ll regret your hurtful and hateful words and actions. That one day, you’ll truly see the humans on the other side of your Veil of Anonymity.

I want to believe this, because I fear a future filled with hateful, hurtful people. I fear a future that’s lost its humanity.

I fear a future without mothers.

And now that I’ve said all this, let the trolling begin. (Civil discourse is always welcome, but I reserve the right to delete hurtful and hateful comments and report your ass, because I’m a mother and I care about you and the other people commenting here.)

Like this:

Thus began a rollicking half hour with my almost 8-year-old son. V is currently into all things LEGO, Minecraft, Mario Bros., or some combination of the three. He’s also very much a player of games. (He gets that honest from his parents.) What I love about him is his ability to make up a game on the spot, usually with a plethora of rules that may not always be remembered–or followed. Especially by him.

Tonight, he pulled out two of his LEGO dice and told my husband and I that we were going to play a game in which we each would become a character. We would take turns telling parts of the story using only twenty words per turn. (I believe the twenty word rule was forgotten almost immediately.) Because it was to be a fantasy/adventure story, there would be monsters, and we would use the dice to fight the monsters. And that’s exactly what we did.

V brandished the first player torch and became a human dwarf (his words, his choice). My husband was next, and he decided upon the atypical character of a dragon. I chose my preferred race and class: Elven mage. We then took turns passing the dice and choosing the fate of our characters. Think Dungeons & Dragons without a dedicated DM (dungeon master). So, not only did we decide where we wanted our characters to go, we also decided what types of monsters we encountered and what type of loot we scored once the monsters were defeated. V did begin our journey in a particular setting: outside a temple in the middle of a very rocky desert. After that, it was all up to our individual imaginations.

By the end of “Chapter One: Going to the Temple and Saving the Village,” we had slain many monsters (while my husband also gained many dragon minions), and we all found a place to rest with our well-gotten treasure. My Elven mage was particularly ecstatic with her crystal ball, dragon scales, and book of enchantment. There was some randomness involved when we used the dice, and, sometimes, we were knocked out or dragged away by monsters. For the most part, though, the adventure went the way it should always go … with victory for the adventurers!

I relate this story, because after V exclaimed, “The end! And, tomorrow, we’ll start Chapter Two!”, I realized that I may have inadvertently passed on my writerly genes to my older son. He has ample opportunities to write at school due to his classroom’s integrated curriculum, and he has become a very good reader in the past year, both of which may be contributing to his sudden love of storytelling. In a way, though, I think my own passion for writing has rubbed off on him, particularly after I published The Golden Orb. He’s told me several times this summer that he wants to “publish” his games, and tonight, he informed us that there are a total of ten chapters in our game, which means nine more fun-filled evenings to play together and tell stories. I think he and I both agreed that we should sit down in the morning and write out our little adventure, so we remember what we did. And if he wants to “publish” our story, I’ll be thrilled to help him.

Because, while his generation is completely one with screens, there still have to be people to tell the stories to put on those screens. That may not be V’s fate. It’s all up to him. My hope, though, is that he never forgets the joy and fun of storytelling.